Brevity is the Charm of Eloquence

In my last posting, I wrote about what I think a poem is and how it may be differentiated from prose.  

I mentioned that in two years, there has never been a winning entry to the Queen’s English Society* poetry competition that has rhyme and that, in my opinion, most entries are at best, pretentious prose.  

I also wrote that I have never been tempted to write a poem on the QES competition’s set theme as I don’t agree with set themes for poetry.  

It seems that now the competition organiser agrees and for the next competition, there will be no theme.

There is a competition rule that, for some reason, poems must not exceed 20 lines in length.

Some years ago, after spending a week with my daughter’s family, I was moved to write a few light-hearted poems based on the antics and behaviour of my grandchildren who were aged 5 and 3 at the time.  Of course, because they were aimed at children and because I am old, very old fashioned and set in my ways, they contained rhyme.

I looked through those poems recently and wondered how they might fare in the QES poetry competition.  I selected one that I thought was quite good and was about to send it in when I realised that with 32 lines, it goes beyond the 20-line boundary.

I emailed the judge and explained that as my poem built slowly and gradually to a dull anticlimax, shortening it would spoil it.  Could I send it in, nonetheless?

Three days later, she replied:

No, there is no point in sending your 32-line poem in for this competition because it exceeds the 20-line rule.  There are other competitions you can enter it into.  

This is the poem I might have entered:

Hurry up William

Hurry up William, we’re off to the shops.

We’re late and so please get a move on.

Leave all of your toys just wherever they are

And then put your shoes and your coat on.

Hurry up William, we’ve got to go now.

Stop playing around.  I’m not joking.

Look at those clouds, it’s so gloomy and grey.

The last thing I want is a soaking.

Hurry up William, the shops will be packed

And with long, twisting queues at each till.

Come over here, let me do up your coat

And for goodness’ sake, try and stand still.

Hurry up William, yes, Bear can come too

But please make sure that he doesn’t stray.

Last time he somehow went off on his own

And was found in the fresh fruit display.

Hurry up William, just look at your hands.

They’re both filthy and covered in grime.

You haven’t been out, so how can it be

That you’re so dirty all of the time?

Hurry up William, aren’t you ready yet?

What on earth have you done with your hair?

It was so tidy just now when I looked.

What has happened?  And no, don’t blame Bear.

Hurry up William.  Oh no!  Look outside.

It’s just pouring. There’s sleet and there’s hail.

You hear that? That’s thunder. Whatever next?

And now listen, it’s blowing a gale!

You’re ready at last.  Is that what you said?

No, you’re not cos you’ve not got your hat.

It’s raining so hard that we’ll stay at home.

We are not going out in all that.

I wonder why the 20-line rule is necessary.  I spent time on Google trying to discover if there is a name for a poem of 20 lines.  It seems that there is no standard form of that length and therefore, no name for such a poem. 

What I did discover - and this is rather exciting - is the draft of a play by George Bernard Shaw that was never published.  It is about the length of a poem and how it affected Shaw’s contemporary, Rudyard Kipling.

 

So Long, Mister Kipling

It is the morning of February 8th, 1910, at Quayle and Morris’s offices in Old Quebec Street, London.  A meeting has been arranged between Mr Simon Quayle, of Q & M, Publisher, and Mr Rudyard Kipling.

An office, sparsely furnished with a desk, two cabinets and three chairs. There is a large bookcase against the wall opposite Mr Quayle who is seated at the desk.  

There is a knock on the door. Quayle puts down his pen and looks up.

Quayle

Come in.

The door opens and a gentleman enters.  He nods towards Quayle, takes off his overcoat and hangs it on a hook.

Quayle

Good morning, Mister Kipling.  Please sit down.  It’s very good of you to come here and discuss things with us. 

Kipling (seated opposite Quayle on the other side of the desk)

Not at all.  I hope very much that we may come to some form of agreement.

Quayle

I am sure we will.  First of all, thank you very much for considering us as your publisher.  I am sure that whatever the problems you are having with Doubleday and Page, you won’t have here with us.

Kipling

I very much hope you are right. It’s been a difficult time.

Quayle

Well, a new start is clearly what you need. Thank you very much for sending us this poem.  We all really like it.

Kipling

Thank you.  I’m so glad you like it because I think it’s one of my best.  I am really quite proud of it.

Quayle

Yes Kippers, we like it very much indeed but there is at least one shortcoming as we see it.  

Kipling  (surprised)

Really?

Quayle

Yes.  We are of the opinion that it’s a bit too long.

Kipling  (surprised and bewildered)

What do you mean, it’s a bit too long?  

Quayle 

Well, four verses at eight lines a verse is far too long for readers to concentrate.  How about cutting it from thirty-two lines to, er, shall we say no more than twenty?

Kipling (bemused)

Why twenty?  That’s an arbitrary number.  No, I think that shortening it would ruin the tone and mood of the piece. I’d rather not.  No, that’s completely out of the question.

Quayle 

Whoa, Kippers, hear me out, old boy, hear me out.  

We think you should cut out verses two and three altogether.  Just remove them.  They don’t add much to the “tone and mood” as you put it, and some of those lines are, and I’m sorry to have to say this, complete nonsense anyway.

Kipling (indignantly)

What on earth do you mean, nonsense?

Quayle (patiently)

Well, for a start, in verse two, how can dreams ever be your master?  And surely, you only used master to rhyme with disaster a couple of lines later.  

And while we’re on the subject of disaster, how the hell can triumph and disaster be impostors?  What or who are they pretending to be?  You don’t say why they’re impostors and so, I’m sorry to say this, Kippers but it’s just nonsense.

Kipling (heatedly and incredulous)

I’ve never heard such idiocy.  Are you serious?  How can you be publishers of poems when you know and understand absolutely nothing at all about poetry?

Quayle (calmly)

I’m sorry you feel that way, Kippers but my colleagues and I agree on that.  There’s one more point.  I don’t like, “build 'em up with worn-out tools,” either.  That is just slapdash and wrong.  We expect better from our writers.  When written, it has to be, and “build them up with worn-out tools”.  How people speak if and when they recite your poem is a matter that has nothing to do with us but we can’t allow sloppy English on the printed page.

Now, if that whole verse goes, we’re well on the way down to somewhere around twenty lines.

Kipling  (angrily and aggressively)

Listen, clown!  Who the hell is Kippers?  If you are to call me anything it will be Mister Kipling.  OK?

Cutting it down to twenty lines will ruin the whole flow of the piece.  It makes it all just about meaningless.

Quayle (emphatically and belligerently)

Meaningless?  I’ll tell you what’s meaningless.  “Pitch and toss” in verse three – that’s what’s meaningless and again, Kippers - oh, sorry about that - you’ve only used that phrase to rhyme with loss at the end of another line.

Kipling (sighing with annoyance and standing up)

Pitch and Toss is a game played with pennies.  Everybody knows that, you buffoon.

Quayle

I didn’t know that and now that I do, I don’t like it.  It sounds as if it could be some kind of gambling.  We can’t have that and so it has to go.  

That means that now, with only verses one and four left, we’re where we want to be, down to sixteen lines and you’ve got the scope to add as many as four more.  That gets you to twenty if you want it a bit longer - but I really don’t see why you would.

Kipling (putting on his overcoat)

What’s this insistence on twenty lines?  It’s just a number you’ve plucked out of the air.  I’ve had enough.  I’ll be staying with Doubleday.  Goodbye.

Kipling opens the office door.

Quayle (shouting after Kipling as he leaves the room)

Another thing.  That title’s stupid too.  If what, for God’s sake?

*At the 2024 AGM, the name was changed from the Queen's to The King’s English Society

193 Is That a Poem?

In August 2020, I wrote about the Queen’s English Society (QES). Click to See  

I make occasional contributions to its quarterly magazine, Quest.  Most articles published in Quest are serious forays into aspects of the English language such as the use of punctuation or the seeming demise of the apostrophe.  

My offerings are always of a much lighter tone than the others such as how much I hate Scrabble or how I abhor the use of phrases like “twenty-four/seven” and “any time soon.”  I’ve had 22 pieces published so far and the feedback that appears after any of them shows that the Quest readers have spotted that I am not a serious, intellectual man of letters.

About two years ago, the QES introduced a quarterly poetry competition.  I have found this event to be somewhat problematic.  The first difficulty I encountered was working out, what is a poem?

I’ve always thought that a poem is a piece of writing in which the words are arranged in a way that conveys information, emotion, and above all, has rhythm or pattern.

I don’t believe that rhyme is essential in a poem although I do feel that rhyme or assonance can add to the beauty of poetry.  I very much enjoy reading “Poem in October” by Dylan Thomas and I have found that its rhythm is improved by reading it to myself in an imagined Welsh accent.

After reading the QES winning poems in the early competitions, I realised that my idea of what a poem is differs from that of the judge.

Theft  

By the time I return, he’s in love  

with someone else. They live  

in a garden with clothes lines  

flapping, the sound of children.  

He sits there, sketching,  

delicious slivers of drawing.  

She leans on her elbows,  

watching. They can’t see me.  

I creep round the edges.  

One of their children  

has lost a blue shoe, I find it  

under a rose bush, I pick it up,  

it’s mine now. Mine.  

This is a winning “poem” according to the QES judge but I find it pretentious and poorly punctuated prose with random line-length.  It is not a poem – in my opinion.

No one lives in a garden and clothes lines can’t flap. The comma after ‘flapping’ should be a full stop but then, ‘The sound of children.’ isn’t a sentence.  

Why the comma after ‘sketching’ and what on earth is ‘a sliver of drawing.’?  There should be full stops after ‘shoe’ and ‘bush’.

Why do poems with rhyme seem to be so out of fashion nowadays?  £5,000 was awarded to the winning poem in the latest Poetry Society national competition.  The whole thing is 26 lines long.  Here are the first six:

The Time I was Mugged in New York City

I told people that the travel sickness pills
made me stupid. I entered JFK with a red
suitcase and no one to greet me. A man
came up to me, dressed in black. I found
myself in a car park by an expensive van
and he was holding my luggage. Get in, he said. 

How on earth can that piece of prose be described as a poem?  It has neither rhythm nor pattern and certainly no rhyme.  Remove the random line length and it no longer even pretends to be a poem:

The Time I was mugged in New York City

I told people that the travel sickness pills made me stupid. I entered JFK with a red suitcase and no one to greet me. A man came up to me, dressed in black. I found myself in a car park by an expensive van and he was holding my luggage. Get in, he said. 

£5,000?  WTF!

I have never been tempted to write a poem on the QES competition’s set theme.  I don’t think much of set themes.  

No one ever said to Keats anything like, “John, I would really like you to write a poem about the song of the Nightingale.  Can you get something to me by end of the month please?”  

No, Keats was inspired by hearing its song while sitting in a garden in Hampstead.  I think it’s interesting that the word “Nightingale” doesn’t appear anywhere in the 80 lines of the poem.  I wonder if it would have had the lasting world-wide acclaim and admiration if Keats had titled it “Ode to a Pigeon” rather than “Ode to a Nightingale”.

During Covid, I was moved to write a poem.  It is actually a parody of “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” by W B Yeats.

Yeats imagined the thoughts of an Irish airman who had volunteered to fight for the United Kingdom during the first world war.  

Ireland gained independence in 1921 and in 1918, when that poem was written, no Irishman would sign up to fight out of loyalty or patriotism to the UK.  The airman just wanted to fly.

This is Yeats’ first verse:

I know that I shall meet my fate 

Somewhere among the clouds above; 

Those that I fight I do not hate, 

Those that I guard I do not love; 

My version was written as a result of a trip to Tesco when I (and everyone else within 40 miles) heard that they had toilet rolls in stock.

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere in Tesco’s push and shove.

Those that I barge, I do not hate

Those that I don’t, I do not love.

My shopping is just essential

And will only fill two small bags.

Their urge to buy seems exponential

Topped up with toilet rolls and fags.

No rise in price could bring them grief

Nor driving rain keep them away.

It was all done through gritted teeth 

I ventured forth that dreadful day.

I balanced all, brought all to mind.

Was it all really so worthwhile

To find the worst in humankind

By standing in a Tesco aisle?

Most songs, especially those written more than 50 years ago, are melodic poetry and many have haunting memorable tunes. 

Here are the first two verses of ‘You Belong to Me”.  It was written in 1952 and despite the final line of every verse being perhaps a little threatening, it is basic poetry.

See the pyramids along the Nile 
Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle
Just remember, darling, all the while
You belong to me.

See the marketplace in old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs
Just remember when a dream appears
You belong to me.

Virtually all the lyrics of the Beatles’ songs have a fundamental poetic element to them.  This is the first verse of “I’m Happy Just to Dance With You”, one of their earliest songs from 1964.

I don’t want to kiss or hold your hand

If it’s funny try and understand

There is really nothing else I’d rather do

‘Cause I’m happy just to dance with you.

Modern songs just aren’t the same.  Here is the opening passage of “Shape of You”, Ed Sheehan’s best-selling song, ever.  It spent 14 weeks at Number 1, and its total combined sales at the moment stand at 5.09 million:

The club isn't the best place to find a lover
So the bar is where I go
Me and my friends at the table doing shots
Drinking fast and then we talk slow
Come over and start up a conversation with just me
And trust me I'll give it a chance now
Take my hand, stop, put Van the Man on the jukebox
And then we start to dance, and now I'm singin' like

See what I mean?  

You probably can't remember the tune either.

192 A for Alpha

I was shopping at Waitrose.  I didn’t need to buy very much; just some cheese to have with bread and pickle that evening.

As I was on my way to check out, I looked into my shopping bag and thought it looked unusually light on items and so I decided to treat myself and buy a packet of my favourite biscuits.  I set off to the sweet biscuit shelves.  

I searched for a few minutes but the problem I had was that I couldn’t remember what they were called.  I knew they were a plain biscuit and in wrapping that was predominantly red and white but I just couldn’t remember their name.

One end of the biscuit shelves was exclusively chocolate coated biscuits and so I started a thorough search from where they stopped, knowing that I’d recognise them when I saw them but I still couldn’t see them anywhere.  

“Oh no,” I thought to myself.  “They’ve done it again.  Just when I decide that there’s a product I really like, they stop selling it.”

I assumed that those biscuits had gone the way of Douwe Egberts Cafetiere Coffee, Robertson’s marmalade and Waitrose Essential chocolate spread.  Waitrose must analyse my buying habits and then, for reasons known only to them, punish me by discontinuing them.

Then I had an idea: “Caroline will know what they are called.”   

Another issue I have with our local Waitrose is that it’s impossible to get a phone signal inside the store.  To phone Caroline, I had to leave the store and stand in the carpark.  So, pushing my trolley ahead of me, that is what I did.

“Have you forgotten to pay, sir?”  A young woman in Waitrose garb had followed me out.

“Oh no.  I’m going back in but I have to make a phone call about something I want to buy.”  

I explained the problem I was having.  I don’t know if she believed me or not but she stayed close, standing next to me.

I phoned Caroline on her work number even though she was working from home.

The carpark was noisy and so I put her on speakerphone.  “Make it quick.  I’m in a Teams meeting,” was her greeting.

“Those plain, brown biscuits we both like.  What are they called?”

She said something but I didn’t catch it.  I looked enquiringly at the Waitrose woman and she shook her head.

“Sorry.  Can you say it again?  I didn’t hear you.”

Caroline was getting tetchy.  “I’m in a meeting,” she repeated and bellowed the same incoherent sound as before.

“Will you spell it letter by letter please?” I asked, calmly.

“B for BOLLOCKS! I for IDIOT! S for SHIT! C for CUNT! O for ORGASM! F for FUCK and another F for FUCK OFF!”

“Ah, Biscoff.” said the young lady from Waitrose.  “I know exactly where they are.  

Follow me.”

191 Justice or Retribution?

On Wednesday, I had to have an ultrasound scan at Milton Keynes hospital.  The ultrasound department is in the X-ray area and of all the areas in the hospital, that zone is the furthest department from the car park.  

Once I had walked the 150 yards from the car park into the hospital building, I was then faced with walking along what must be one of the longest corridors in England, if not Europe.  

I have mentioned before that it is possible that I may suffer from arithmomania (Click to see), a compulsion to count.  

The first time I visited the X-ray department at MK University Hospital, I was so surprised by the length of the corridor, that I counted my steps back.  It was 502 and even though my steps these days are shorter than they ever were because of arthritis, that has to be getting on for a quarter of a mile.

I was instructed not to eat anything nor drink any liquid but water for six hours before the ultrasound scan which was scheduled for 1 p.m.  That is the worst possible time for such a procedure as it meant that I had consumed nothing but water since eight o’clock the previous evening - 17 hours!  

With the prospect of the long, gruelling trek awaiting me, I left home too early and because I walked pain free, arrived at X-ray much too soon, at 12.25 p.m.  The waiting room was empty and the woman at reception told me that I would be the first to be seen after lunch.  I sat on one the  front row chairs of the nine empty chairs and to pass the time, started to play a game on my phone.

Twenty minutes later, I looked up to see two men with their backs to me standing side-by-side at reception.  They were deep in conversation with the receptionist. One of them, who was probably just in his twenties, looked round at me and grinned.  I was surprised and not because he had grinned at me, a stranger, but because of the odd look of his face.  If ever it is possible to detect learning difficulties by looks alone, this was such a case.  

I went back to my game and they both came to sit behind me.  I couldn’t help but overhear everything that was said.  

The young man who had grinned at me was constantly asking questions of the other.  “Are we there now?” and “What’s that lady’s name?” were two of his many queries.  It was like listening to a three-year-old nagging a parent.  The man with him never responded to any of the countless questions and then, a woman came in and sat with them.  She ignored him too.

Just after I heard him ask, “Who’s that man?” which I assume was a question to do with me, the receptionist caught my eye and beckoned me.  “I’m sorry but your appointment will be delayed.  That man has to be seen first.”

“Why?”

“He has to have priority,” was all she said.

As I walked back to my chair, I looked at the three of them properly for the first time and I was stunned.  Both the silent man and the woman were wearing heavy, dark blue jackets with silver buttons but the shocking thing was that the young, grinning man was in handcuffs and he was also shackled to the wrist of the other man.

They were two prison warders and a prisoner, almost certainly from Woodhill, a high security prison and young offender institution in Milton Keynes.

I have no idea what the prisoner had done to be in custody.  I don’t know whether he was on remand or serving a sentence; whether he was innocent or guilty or what crime he had committed but it seems blindingly obvious to me that prison is not the place where he should be.  

He clearly has huge mental problems and if incarceration is necessary, a secure hospital is surely the place for him.

With prison overcrowding at crisis point and talk of releasing all female prisoners to create space for men, there is one space that could be given to house someone who certainly understood that what he did was criminal.  I doubt that young man did.

That look on his face still haunts me.